


Learning Curves

by manic_intent



Series: Code of Ethics [4]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Really a collection of post BvS jokes, That AU fic in the 'verse where Batman is retired, The Big Reveal, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 23:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6446113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re late.” Bruce told him, feigning a little scowl. “I sent you a text an <i>hour</i> ago.”</p><p>“Some of us have real jobs.” Clark tried his best to sound nonchalant. Bruce had clearly been waiting for him since a dinner engagement: he was still in a beautifully made tux, slim-fitting, bow-tie and all, the sharp line of his cuffs cut against gorgeously soft-looking white gloves. Clark was glad for the wool of his coat, as his trousers grew tight. Bruce would’ve made fun of him for that. </p><p>“Don’t I own the Daily Planet? Maybe the editor, whats-his-name, should just assign you to me full time. The Wayne Desk, they could call it.” Bruce smirked as Clark crowded him against the rail, circling an arm around the small of his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Curves

**Author's Note:**

> And now to work all the rest of the BvS jokes out of my system… ^^ Damn. Twitter has so much Superbat art…

I.

“That’s enough for today,” Diana announced, as Clark picked himself up yet again from the dirt. He didn’t hide his relief in time: Diana smirked at him, strapping her shield over her back and sheathing her blade. “You just need more practice.”

“Am I really getting better?” 

Diana shrugged. “Not by that much.” As Clark groaned, she added dryly, “You come here once a week. Half the time, you have to cut practice short because someone, somewhere is in trouble. If you wanted to become as good as one of my sisters then you would have to practice every _day_ , for hours, for years.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Why? Your powers are good enough for what you do. Besides. What you are learning now is the least of what you need to learn to be a good warrior. Someone who only knows how to fight is but a brawler. A _warrior_ understands strategy. Circumstance. She is someone who can read a battlefield, and turn it to her advantage, sometimes without even drawing her blade.” 

“I see. I could make more time. That is, if you’re free.” Clark hesitated. “How are things? Back home?”

“The way they always have been,” Diana sat down on the grassy lip before the stretch of sand overlooking the Mediterranean sea, and after a moment’s hesitation, Clark sat down beside her, stretching out his red boots. “That is the problem for people who are effectively immortal. When you stand outside the river of Time, it is too easy for a society to stagnate, too easy to let the days pass by, meaningless.” She stared down at her palms, pensive. “It was why I tried to leave. Partly.” 

“You can’t… make it better?” 

“I am trying. I _have_ been learning these past years. And that is why I do not have the time to teach you. Nor will you be allowed on the island.” Diana clasped Clark’s shoulder. “But you do not need to learn strategy from me. You have other friends for that.” 

“I don’t really want to give my military ‘friend’ any kinda impression that I’m ready to sign up,” Clark said, pulling a face. 

Diana eyed him with surprise. “I thought you said that you have made your peace with Bruce Wayne.” 

“Uh… yes?” 

“What happens when you throw a paper ball at someone?” Diana asked mildly, in a strange non-sequitur.

“They… get angry? Dodge?” 

“Bruce might surprise you,” Diana said, smiling a strange, secretive smile, and would not explain herself. Distracted on the way back, Clark spent the rest of the day doing nothing whatsoever, staring blankly at his screen in his cubicle at the Daily Planet, until Lois got concerned and came over, leaning a hip against his desk.

“Something came up?” 

“No I… Not really.” Clark stared at the blinking blue line on his screen, where no text seemed forthcoming. “And why did Perry ask me to help with the sports desk? I don’t know anything about sports. I’m usually World or Travel.”

“Because our whole sports team, including the stringers, got salmonella poisoning last night,” Lois said dryly. “Exceptional circumstances. Otherwise, yeah, you’re right, we usually stick to our own desks. Daily Planet’s a big paper. Perry’s probably desperate if he’s asking you to pitch in.”

“Are _you_ pitching in?”

“Already have. Just write a little opinion piece about… hm, what about the US Women’s Soccer Team’s equal wages lawsuit? That might be something closer to your heart. Stick it in as an opinion column, it’d still fill a space. Still Sports.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks. Uh. Lois,” Clark added hurriedly, as Lois turned to go. “What uh. What would you do if someone threw a paper ball at you?” 

“Stuff it down their throat?” Lois raised her eyebrows. “Why?” 

“Nothing. Someone asked me that earlier today. It’s been bothering me.” 

“Seriously, that’s it?” Lois grabbed a piece of foolscap paper off Clark’s desk, scrunching it up. “Hey, Jimmy!” Several cubicles down, Jimmy’s head rose up out of the bisected prefab sea, and Lois instantly hurled the ball at him. Jimmy made a sound like a startled piglet, ducked violently enough that his chair went spinning, and the ball missed, bouncing off another cubicle wall. 

“What was that for?” Jimmy complained, peeking up cautiously, in case of follow-up projectiles.

“Clark asked me to do it.”

“Did not!” Clark objected vehemently, but Jimmy frowned at him with a wounded expression and slid back down to his desk. 

“There,” Lois said smugly. 

“Thanks. You’re. A great help.” 

“Don’t mention it, babe. Now step to it, all right? The Bossman’s love affair with your articles seems to have flamed out and died, from what I’ve heard, and if you want to make a living selling through articles like before, you better just write what he wants you to write. Just like the rest of us peons.” 

Monaco was six hours ahead of Metropolis, which meant it was a little past midnight by the time Clark sent the opinion piece to Perry’s desk and got to the balcony of the suite that Bruce was staying in. The Hotel de Paris overlooked a manicured garden with a fountain centrepiece studded with palms, sprawling outwards to the water, and elegant street lamps lit up the driveway, packed with luxury cars. Bruce was admiring them, wineglass in hand, though he glanced up when Clark landed, discreet in a dark coat instead of his red-and-blue suit. 

“You’re late.” Bruce told him, feigning a little scowl. “I sent you a text an _hour_ ago.”

“Some of us have real jobs.” Clark tried his best to sound nonchalant. Bruce had clearly been waiting for him since a dinner engagement: he was still in a beautifully made tux, slim-fitting, bow-tie and all, the sharp line of his cuffs cut against gorgeously soft-looking white gloves. Clark was glad for the wool of his coat, as his trousers grew tight. Bruce would’ve made fun of him for that. 

“Don’t I own the Daily Planet? Maybe the editor, whats-his-name, should just assign you to me full time. The Wayne Desk, they could call it.” Bruce smirked as Clark crowded him against the rail, circling an arm around the small of his back. 

Clark hid his grin against the nape of Bruce’s neck. “Don’t you dare,” he began, just as his phone beeped him, and he palmed it from his coat pocket, checking the screen. It was just Mom, asking if he would be home over the weekend, and he was about to put the phone back into his coat when Bruce grabbed his wrist, frowning. 

“That lock screen.” 

“Oh.” Clark flushed. “Sorry. I’ll. Delete it.” It was a candid picture that he had taken of Bruce after the only night that Bruce had spent over at Clark’s apartment. Bruce was asleep on Clark’s bed, lips parted, lying on his flank with the blanket rucked up over his hips, and although Clark had angled the image carefully to hide Bruce’s identity, he _had_ been indiscreet and- 

“You should, it’s a bad photo. You want a nice photo of me, look up Vanity Fair.” Bruce sipped his wine. 

“You don’t… mind?” 

“Mind what? You having a picture of me on your phone? You’re probably not the only one.” Bruce smirked at him. “But seriously. Get a better picture.” 

“I like this one. I’m the only one who has it.” 

“Don’t get sappy on me, farmboy - hey-“ Bruce growled as Clark took the wineglass from him, setting it on the table behind them, then he yelped as Clark picked him up, with an arm under his knees and the other around his back, carrying him into the suite. Bruce was still glowering at him as Clark poured him onto the plushly quilted bed, both of them kicking off shoes, shoving off coats. Clark tasted wine on Bruce’s tongue, lust on his breath, aching as he pushed his hips blindly against Bruce’s thigh, whimpering as Bruce kneaded his ass. 

“Think there’s lube in the side drawer,” Bruce purred, working off Clark’s belt. 

“We could… we could switch, if you want to,” Clark said, unthinkingly. Bruce frowned at him, surprised, and Clark added hastily, “Not that I don’t really uh, like what we do, but I mean, I read up, and maybe, I want to be fair and-“ 

“Clark,” Bruce interrupted, very dryly. “Read up? Really? Where?”

“I uh. Googled it.”

“Okay firstly, please stop looking up those kinds of questions on the internet, just talk to me,” Bruce flicked his nose. “And secondly.” Bruce leaned up, patting the brass knob that sat at one corner of the mahogany headboard. “Could you crush this barehanded?” 

Clark glanced at the knob. “Uh yeah. But won’t the hotel get angry?” 

“That’s not the point,” Bruce prodded him in the shoulder. “The point is, _you can crush that barehanded_. Probably even by accident. So. What in God’s name do you think would happen if I put my cock up your cute little ass, hm?” 

“… Okay, I didn’t need that mental image.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Clark groaned into the pillow beside Bruce’s head. “I think you also killed the mood.” 

Bruce patted Clark on the shoulder, clearly unrepentant. “That’s what you get for being an hour late and then suggesting that I do myself a grievous sex-related injury-“ 

Clark surged over to kiss him, until he had wiped the smug look off Bruce’s face, and they kissed until Bruce started to doze off, sleepy from wine and from the lateness of the hour. Clark gently undid the bowtie and the top two buttons of Bruce’s shirt, then he put his glasses aside, turned the lights off, tucked them in and lay face to face, watching Bruce sleep, entranced. 

He had long committed the pattern of Bruce’s heartbeat to memory, and it was better this close, this loud. Love had come late to Clark’s life, with Lois, but this did not seem to be love, not the way he had known it before. What he felt had little to do with tenderness and everything to do with inevitability: love and sex were only symptoms. The true nature of their connection seemed more fundamental, something older, wordless.

1.0.

Clark made up for the godawful evening by waking Bruce up with a very enthusiastic blowjob, whimpering as Bruce bit down a groan and shoved up into his throat, too hungry to be polite. Alien genetics seemed to mean that Clark had no gag reflex, and Jesus but it was hot to see Clark nosing against Bruce’s belly, lips stretched around the thick root and still whining for more, as though he could get Bruce’s cock further down his throat if only he begged. Bruce grit his teeth to swallow a whine of his own and clenched his fingers into Clark’s hair, tugging until Clark obligingly let up an inch, moaning around Bruce’s cock as Bruce set his heels against the bed and thrust roughly up into that damnable heat.

“Fuck,” Bruce breathed, as Clark sucked on what he was given and whimpered in protest as Bruce pulled him up an inch more to get a better view, all that slick dark flesh, disappearing past reddened lips. The most deadly living force in the world, on his knees between Bruce’s thighs, taking Bruce’s cock like he needed it to breathe. Bruce clapped a hand over his own mouth, shivering, his self-control fraying. This seemed to spur Clark on, sucking harder, God was he _humping the bed_ , so prettily flushed, his eyes closed, reverent. When Bruce jerked up with a final swallowed gasp, Clark drank it all down, greedy as anything, breathlessly licking Bruce clean. 

“Get up here,” Bruce rasped, and Clark grinned and shifted up, licking his lips, his freed cock already softening. He’d come against the bed, just from sucking Bruce’s cock. Bruce grit his teeth as lust scratched, gritty, through his frayed nerves; they kissed, Bruce with teeth, Clark sloppy and adoring. “Pity about that,” Bruce lazily patted Clark’s wet cock. “Wanted it inside me.”

Clark shivered. “Um. Ten minutes.”

“Really?” 

“Maybe… ahh… maybe less.” Clark hissed as Bruce slid his palm down, fondling heavy balls, biting down on his lower lip, ruinously sexy and not even aware of it. “Um… but what about you?” 

“Told you before. I don’t need to get it up to enjoy it.” 

It turned out to be five minutes, with Clark mouthing at Bruce’s neck, stretching him out with nervous fingers, his cock hard against Bruce’s thigh, though it was longer before Clark was satisfied with prep. Alien biology had another perk there. Clark took him on the bed, Bruce’s ankles around his back, all deep, punishing thrusts, then again in the shower, Bruce shoved up against the tiles, Clark’s teeth caught in his shoulder. Bruce was aching by the time they finally cleaned up, settling gingerly onto the couch as Clark dithered through ordering room service, and when they settled down to wait, Bruce was pleasantly close to dozing again. 

“It’s the morning,” Clark told him, grinning. 

“Fuck you, alien life form, not everyone can go three rounds and still be so fucking perky.” 

“I could probably go another round after coffee,” Clark conceded, and laughed when Bruce shot him an incredulous stare. “Joking.”

“No you’re not,” Bruce said, with mock sadness. “Jesus. Five more years and I’m going to be half a century old. Trying to keep up with you then would probably drive me into an early grave.” 

“I don’t think it’d be that bad.” 

Bruce yawned, briefly covering his mouth. “We’ll see. I’m going to be dead asleep through the meet and greet later today, fuck. What are you going to be up to? Still training with Diana?”

“That was yesterday. I did ask her if she was free for more sessions like you suggested, but. She doesn’t have the time.”

“Figures. She’s a Princess. Somehow, I don’t think that title’s ceremonial.” Bruce stretched his feet out gingerly onto a footrest, sunk into the hotel’s nicely fluffy bathrobe. “Surely she could nominate a friend. Or a minion.” 

“She said that just learning how to fight wasn’t enough,” Clark added, leaning forward slightly, so very earnest. “Apparently I have to learn strategy as well.”

“There’s no ‘apparently’ about that, you definitely have to.” 

“Diana kinda… you know, this is weird, but she kinda brought you up when she mentioned it.”

It took all of Bruce’s self-control to keep his expression constant. “Oh she did, did she? Well, tell her I’m flattered. But the sort of ‘strategy’ that you can learn from me definitely isn't what she’s referring to, unless you plan on going into business. And even then, I think mine runs something like: Step One, Inherit a Trust Fund.” 

Clark was giving Bruce an odd look. Had he slipped up somewhere? Damn that Diana. She’d been down in the Cave, she- “I guess maybe she thought you might know someone who could help.” 

“Possibly she meant that I could _pay_ someone to help,” Bruce corrected. “But if that’s what you need, sure. Name someone, and I’ll talk them into it.” 

Thankfully, breakfast arrived at that point, and Clark seemed to forget about Diana and her suggestions, wolfing down most of the spread that arrived instead. Bruce found that he didn’t have the appetite, and picked at some pastries and had a cup of very strong coffee, pretending to read the morning copy of the New York Times. The Bat was dead, and had been for a long time: he had thought that he had left it behind him.

The past _always_ caught up. 

“You’re quiet,” Clark noted. 

Bruce glanced up, frowning. “Just contemplating how our democratic process seems to have turned into a flaming nightmare-“ He cut himself off as Clark, grinning impishly, tossed a balled up piece of paper at him. It wasn’t a threat. Bruce didn’t even bother to flinch, sighing as it bounced off his shoulder. “Really, farmboy? I think you’ve had enough sugar.” 

Again, there was that odd look, but before Bruce could parse it, Clark was grinning again. “Just thinking about how I kinda want to have something else in my mouth right now. Even if you can’t get hard.” 

Bruce nearly coughed his coffee out over the paper. “Good Lord. I’ve created a monster.” 

“You only have yourself to blame,” Clark agreed, and leaned precariously over the table for a sticky, jam-sweetened kiss.

II.

Clark wasn’t stupid. He could feel the truth of what Diana had hinted at, of what Bruce was hiding, see the edges of the great picture, shrouded. But he sat on it for days, uncertain. Bruce had chosen not to mention it. It seemed destructive to pry.

But the reporter in him had taken hold after all, and at the heart of it all, the Daily Planet had cultivated Clark’s curiosity, if nothing else. He met Tam Fox at Lucius’ farm, in the paddock, suited up. Lucius was nowhere to be seen, but Tam was there with her daughter Tina, the horses in the paddock skidding away, snorting, as Clark floated several inches off the ground. 

This was Tam Fox’s idea of forgiveness: grinning indulgently as Tina rode over Clark’s shoulders, tiny fingers in his hair, laughing gleefully at the ride. “Careful,” Tam said. “Any more and you’re going to hijack Bruce’s ‘Favourite Uncle’ status. He’s been cultivating that since Tina was born, and he might never forgive you.” 

“Maybe he needs to up his game.” 

“Don’t encourage him.” Somewhere beyond the paddock, the biggest dog Clark had ever seen was barking excitedly, paws planted anxiously on the wooden picket posts as it watched its tiny mistress with soulful eyes. It was the size of a small pony, and hugely fluffy, black and white and golden. 

“Cute dog,” Clark offered. 

“The best,” Tina agreed, behind his head. Tam rolled her eyes. 

“Cute until you see the amount of poop that it makes. Scooby over there is a poop machine.” The dog barked louder, wagging its tail violently at the sound of its name. “What did you want to talk about?” 

“Diana mentioned to me that I should be learning strategy from Bruce.” Clark decided to head straight to the point. 

“Oh she did, did she?” Tam snorted. “Well, don’t bother. You think Bruce has anything to do with the strategic decisions of his own company? You’re better off learning from me or my father.” 

“I don’t think she meant in business.” 

Tam looked Clark in the eye, her heartbeat absolutely steady. “Really? What else could she have meant?” 

“Float in a circle!” Tina patted Clark’s shoulder, and Clark obligingly did a slow circuit around Tam, thinking. Maybe he _had_ been rushing to conclusions. It wasn’t like Diana actually knew Bruce very well, compared to Tam. 

“I don’t know,” Clark admitted. “I guess. Sorry. It was a dumb thought.” 

“What was?” Tam asked gently. 

“You’re going to laugh.”

“I think after all that’s happened, I kinda deserve some fun at your expense.” 

“Okay,” Clark said reluctantly. “I kinda thought. Maybe Bruce is the Batman.” Tam raised her eyebrows, and Clark added defensively. “I know, I know. It was a dumb thought. I just. I looked through the news archives. Bruce kinda went on a hiatus in his early twenties. I know he went to Asia. Then he came back, and that same year, that’s when we got the first reports of Batman. Flashy gadgets, that car, even a small _plane_. You’ve got to have some serious money for that, and it’s all cutting edge tech, stuff that’s not on the market. And uh. Bruce only started pouring money into his urban revitalisation stuff _after_ the Bane event, when Batman disappeared for good, so. I thought maybe he changed gears. And. You can laugh at me now.”

It was Tina who laughed, infectiously, until Clark was smiling as well, but Tam stared at them both thoughtfully before she smiled, small and careful. “Momma,” Tina chortled, “Superman thinks Uncle Bruce is _Batman_. Isn’t that funny?” 

“Who d'you think Batman is, sweetheart?” Tam asked, amused.

“Auntie Gordon! Duh! _Before_ she became Commissioner.” 

“Commissioner Gordon has Favourite Aunt status,” Tam explained. “Because of the one time she took Tina into the precinct on a PR day.”

“That seems to have gone well…?” Clark ventured.

Tina crowed. “I saw all the criminals!” 

“I think the one who was most freaked out was Bruce, actually. He had a flaming row with Barbara.” Tam shook her head slowly. “The Batman’s gone, son. Leave it be.”

2.0.

Bruce had been vaguely dreading Clark’s next post-Diana visit. They had dinner at the discreet wine bar and went back to Bruce’s penthouse, nice and easy, but once there, Clark wandered out to the garden, toeing off his shoes and taking off his socks to stand barefoot on the grass, looking up at the sky. It was a clear night, and above, the endless dark was dotted with scars.

By the bar, Bruce poured himself a finger of whisky. He was probably going to need it. “If you like real grass that much I could probably get some planted even in your shoebox apartment,” he suggested.

“Thanks, but no,” Clark pulled a face. “My landlord will be pissed. And no, please don’t buy over the building.” 

“You took the thought right out of my mind.” Bruce tipped back the whisky, welcoming the warm burn as it went down, then he flinched as Clark was abruptly before him, catching the shot glass as Bruce dropped it, setting it aside along with his spectacles and kissing Bruce on the mouth, thorough and hungry, chasing the alcohol. Bruce kissed him back, heady with adrenaline, his nerves still unsettled by Clark’s inhuman speed. They ended up on the couch, Bruce on his back, Clark sprawled on top of him; pinned down by someone far more dangerous, Bruce had to fight his instinct to struggle free.

“Once you told me that there was a lot that I don’t know about you,” Clark said gently, when they parted for breath, angling up, brushing a kiss on Bruce’s forehead.

“Still true.” 

“And I said that there was nothing you could tell me about yourself that could make me want to be somewhere else.” 

“Patently wrong at that point,” Bruce said warily, wondering where this was headed. “Given I had plans for your demise.” 

“No you didn’t,” Clark disagreed. “You had plans to stop me, if I ever went too far. But you and Tam never really wanted to hurt me. That wasn’t the point of what the both of you did.” 

“Not at that point, no,” Bruce said carefully.

“There’s still nothing that you could tell me about yourself,” Clark kissed the edge of Bruce’s mouth, then lower, to his jaw, “That could make me think less of you, all right? You’re still the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” Clark’s lips were warm and firm against Bruce’s throat. “No one’s perfect. And the older you get, the more regrets you collect. That’s the way it is for everyone. It matters what you’ve done. But it also matters _why_ you did it. And what you’re doing next.”

“You had a long talk with Diana, I see.” 

“She didn’t tell me anything.” Clark leaned up onto his elbows, sober. “I just. I can hear you freaking out inside, by the way. That first time when I mentioned what Diana said about strategy. And now. Tam, though, when I raised your name and ‘Batman’ in the same sentence, she was steady like a rock.” 

His heart rate, maybe. Bruce stilled, wary now, watching the warm intensity in Clark’s eyes, the adoration writ so openly in his gentle smile. If Bruce brushed his past away, he knew that Clark would simply accept it. Clark would never bring up the Batman in Bruce’s presence again: they could move on, and maybe Swanwick would teach Clark about strategy, maybe Diana. Bruce would have no further part in that part of Clark’s life save as some sort of ill-placed moral compass, one of several. 

And… he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted. 

Bruce let out a slow, uneven sigh, and rubbed a hand over his face. “Damn that woman.” 

“Diana? She didn’t say anything about you today.”

Bruce kept his hand over his eyes. “Those years… what I did as the Batman? It’s not a part of me that I’m proud of.” He could hear Clark exhale, soft breath brushing over Bruce’s knuckles before lips pressed over his fingers. 

“Why?” 

“All that time, all that money, and I didn’t solve anything. But I _thought I was_. Revenge blinded me to the truth. Violence doesn’t solve crime. Neither does mass incarceration. All you do is keep making things worse for the disadvantaged. Making sure that the people who fell through the cracks and broke the law stay that way... whether they were poor, or mentally ill, or disaffected. I had to nearly die to see it, that with my resources I could’ve done a lot more good if only I’d _thought about it_.” 

“You turned things around,” Clark was trying to nose under Bruce’s hand, his mouth pressed to Bruce’s cheek. “Walked away.” 

“Not entirely. It’s all still there. Under the Manor. Somedays, it’s tempting to take a step back.” Bruce glanced up as Clark pulled his palm away, pinning his wrist to the couch, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t ask _me_ to teach you anything, Superman. I’m the worst person for it.”

“But you already have,” Clark murmured, against Bruce’s mouth, close enough to kiss. “You’ve taught me a lot of valuable lessons.”

“Like not to trust people on face value?” Bruce asked dryly, which got him a little frown. 

“About _responsibility_ ,” Clark corrected. “And consequences. You’re a better person than you think.” 

“I see that I’ve yet to teach you cynicism,” Bruce said quietly, and got a kiss for his trouble, slow and sweet.

Bruce kept his mouth clamped closed, but he could feel his heartbeat picking up, and Clark - God, it was crazy to think about this - Clark could probably _hear it_. They kissed until Bruce stopped grumbling and squirming, until he gave in, kissing Clark back, and this was like being flayed open, everything stripped down and forced into the light. Before Clark, Bruce could not hide, not any longer, and it should be frightening, but it wasn’t.

III.

“Did you really use to call this the ‘Batcave’?” Clark gawked as the lights banked on, Bruce striding on towards the multi-screened computer. Behind them, Alfred had already retreated disapprovingly, apparently since nobody wanted any drinks or was staying for dinner.

“It’s actually a batcave,” Bruce waved to his left, at the chittering sounds from the colony beyond. “So, yes.” 

“There are _real_ bats in here? Don’t they uh. Make lots of um. Poop?” 

“Surely Superman can say ‘shit’ without the world imploding,” Bruce had settled into his chair, though the smirk was in his voice. “You’re not that much of a boy scout, I should know. Fuck. I think we overdid it. My _tail bone_ hurts. Go ahead,” he added absently, “Poke around.” 

Clark came back when Bruce was talking to Diana via a video link, something or other about a UN special summit with Diana as Paradise Island’s ambassador. Diana was dressed in a simple white tunic, with a bare white wall behind her, and she waved as Clark leant over the back of Bruce’s chair. 

“Fine, I’ll be there,” Bruce said, ignoring Clark. “But prepare to continue to be disappointed over how the world works. Have you seen the papers since your announcement?” 

“I’ve seen the ‘sexy art’,” Diana said mildly. “Man continues to have such a wild imagination about my people. Why would armour designed by a matriarchal society leave out protective plating above the heart and neck, but have a shell over each breast with a wedge in between? A blow from the front could shatter the breastbone. Does Mankind think that our Achilles heel is our breasts?” 

“Let’s… not go there,” Bruce said diplomatically.

“And why are all the images of pale women? We’re more closely related to the Syrian and Libyan people. It has been puzzling.” 

“I _told_ the art department,” Clark said gloomily. 

“Don’t even get me started on the heels,” Diana sniffed. “ _You_ people try fighting in heeled boots and see how that goes for your balance or your feet. Clark, will you be attending the summit?”

“I guess. If you want me to be there. I don’t want to be a distraction or anything.” 

“You will be welcome, my friend.” 

Diana eventually signed off, and the screens returned to neutral, the Wayne Enterprises logo on each lock screen. “Kinda old-fashioned,” Clark teased. 

“What is?”

“That ‘W’ logo. Lexcorp, though, that’s a nice brand.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Nowadays, rebranding a big company is a bit of a shitshow. Can’t please anyone and everyone has a fucking opinion. So. Looked around? Satisfied?” 

There was something prickly to Bruce’s tone, and Clark said, his tone deliberately light, “I’m not sure what the narrow firepit is for, in the room with the tyres and chains. Or that weird big black pulley with the heavy hook. Or the statue holding a platform.” 

Bruce scowled. “Are you quite finished?” 

“You didn’t have to take me here if you don’t actually want me to be here,” Clark said, more gently. Bruce loved his grand gestures. 

Fingers drummed impatiently on the arm rest of Bruce’s chair, then Bruce sighed. “You don’t need me for most of what you do. Rescuing people from floods and earthquakes, that’s not exactly rocket science with your powers.” 

“It seems to me,” Clark said quietly, “That the kind of strategy worth learning about isn’t the type that teaches you how to win a war. I want to learn how to solve difficult problems _without_ resorting to war. Problems that are closer to ‘rocket science’. There’s so much out there in the world that I want to fix. I can’t stand aside while others suffer, like what Diana’s chosen. I literally can’t be deaf to all the pain in the world. But I don’t want to solve my problems by punching them out.”

“Some things even Superman can’t fix,” Bruce said soberly. “That’s just the way the world is.”

“I know. But I can try. If you’ll help me.” 

“I still think I’m the wrong person to ask,” Bruce said, after a long silence, but then he leaned forward in his seat, and the screens lit back up in response. “Boko Haram has been kidnapping hundreds of children for years - it’s not just Chibok. Last year they took _four hundred_ women and children when they overran Damasak. Some schoolgirls have been resurfacing as suicide bombers-”

3.0.

“… and by the time I got there Lois already pepper sprayed her kidnapper in the face and kicked him in the nuts,” Clark concluded, curled behind Bruce on the couch as Bruce flicked desultorily through the film selection.

“Good for her.”

“And then she told me off for dropping what I was doing in the Congo,” Clark added gloomily. 

“As she should. Wait. How did you even know she was in trouble from halfway across the world? Are you stalking her 24/7 with superpowers? Because. That’s, ah-“

“Creepy yes, she told me.” Clark buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder with a groan. “I said I was sorry! I couldn’t help it.” 

“Are you doing it to me?” Bruce asked, curious. “Whatever it is?” Highly select superhearing? He couldn’t imagine Clark being open to everyone in the world, all the time. That was just a recipe for a total mental breakdown.

“Sorry. Sorry. I told her I'd stop. I just. I can’t bear it. If you guys get hurt and-“

“Do you do this to your mother?” 

“Um.” Clark coughed. “No. She made me stop and learn how to tune her out. When I was ten. It was kinda. Really embarrassing for everyone.” 

Bruce thought this over. “Overheard her and your father having sex, did you?”

“Oh my _God_.” Clark groaned. “Don’t remind me. Wait. You want to watch ‘The Revenant’? Really?” 

“I heard it was good.” 

“It’s… kinda about someone suffering manfully in the snow for two hours.”

“So?”

“…Let’s watch ‘Zootopia’?” 

Bruce pulled a face. “No.” 

He held the remote out of Clark’s reach, and they ended up wrestling for it on the couch, until Bruce squirmed on top, the remote left forgotten on the carpet. The world seemed to have narrowed itself down; Bruce was caught fast, and this time he didn’t bother to struggle. Clark grinned up at him as though he had heard the sentiment, hands stroking up from Bruce’s flanks to his back, still so impossibly beautiful, his lips parting as he leaned up, begging for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> Good luck to the Women’s Soccer Team in their fight for equality: http://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/soccer/2016/04/01/women-soccer-claim-eeoc-chief-wage-discrimination/82525984/  
> You can check out BvS!Bruce’s house via Google Street View: http://comicbook.com/2016/03/30/batman-v-superman-bruce-waynes-residence-is-in-googles-street-vi/ It is srsly. Like an S&M club in there.  
> On Amazon women: http://www.disclose.tv/forum/suppressed-histories-african-queens-libyan-amazons-t44457.html  
> Damasak: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/boko-haram-damasak-girls-kidnapped_us_56fd9b7de4b0daf53aef4c39
> 
> \--  
> Credits: A lot of the convo in this fic was inspired by random convos off twitter with enablers  
> \--  
>  ~~my stream of consciousness~~ twitter: manic_intent  
>  tumblr: manic-intent


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